Duh!

It never ceases to amaze me that so many people stumble through life without a clue. I have to wonder how they manage to stay alive. You know the people I’m referring to; those who clearly suffer from IBP, Insufficient Brain Power.
The supermarket is a hot spot for encountering these people.

I was in the produce department shucking corn. A woman pushed her cart along side mine and stared long and hard at the sign above the corn; a sign written by someone with either a great sense of humor or no advertising skills. It read 25 cents each or 4 for $1.00.

I don’t know why the woman didn’t come to me with her profoundly deep question. I could have helped. She chose, instead, to bring her bewildered mind to a nearby produce worker.

“Excuse me.” she said, pointing to the sign. “Can you tell me which of these is the better buy?” His furrowed brow and flashing eyes revealed unspoken thoughts: Either I’m on Candid Camera, or this broad is an imbecile.

“Well........I think that either way it’ll cost you 25 cents an ear.”

“Wow,” she said, “You sure are good with figures. I could never have done that without a calculator.” He knew then that he would not be meeting Allen Funt Jr.

I rolled my eyes, and headed for the asparagus, trying hard to maintain composure.

I was in line at the pharmacy department. A woman pushing a cart came toward me. Beside her was a toddler, about three years old. The child’s arms encircled a huge beach ball that he couldn’t possibly see over. Suddenly, he darted out in front of me. His mother grabbed his arm, yanked him to her side and scolded, “Michael, haven’t I warned you about this kind of thing? If you’re not careful you’re going to trip someone, and when you do you’re going to have to use all your money to pay their doctor and hospital bills. Do you understand?” Little Michael’s eyes glazed over so I added, “Yeah, Michael. You’d better think about getting a second job.”

Every checkout line was lengthy — all but one. I had lucked out. His tag said his name was Bill. Slowly and methodically, Bill examined each of my purchases to determine if it met his standards, before allowing it to leave the store. At the pace of a snail on high doses of Valium, he positioned items into each bag like he was piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. I never knew a bag could hold so much.

I started to hyperventilate as I watched people in other lines move closer to their cashier, check out, pay and leave the store while Bill continued to inspect and caress each of my groceries as though they were Waterford flutes. I came this close to snatching things from his pudgy little hands and hammering them over his head to prove their durability.

Finally, he completed what may well have been an inventory inspection. The cost came to $79.05. It was then that I did the unthinkable. I gave Bill $80.05. He held the money in his open hand, stared at it, looked at me, glanced at the cash register, then back at me. At first I didn’t understand what the problem was but when I did, I admit I enjoyed watching him squirm. He had agonized, silently, for every bit of 15 seconds when I explained, “All you have to do is give me back a dollar.” His vapid eyes flashed IBP, IBP. “Just punch $80.05 into your register,” I offered. Still no response, so I ripped the nickel from his hand and snapped, “Do it your way.”

I left with artistically packed grocery bags, a purse full of loose change, and a really bad headache, vowing never to check out with Bill again. Come to think of it the other customers had probably taken that oath already, which would explain why his was the only register without a line.